It's that time again.

I saw my first hunted deer this morning. Sick.

I don't cope well with deer hunting season. No, I'm not a vegetarian, animal rights activist. Sure, I don't eat venison, but that has more to do with my intense fear and disgust of dead deer than of an affinity for Bambi.

I grew up with a deer hunting dad. I've seen my fair share of skinned deer, deer heads, antlers boiling on the stove to remove the grime leftover from the deer's SKULL.

I've seen blood on the garage floor, on my bike, on the roof of the Chevy Blazer, on the blaze orange.

Unfortunately this was not a scene from a horror film, it was every November during the formative years of my youth. And therefore, I hate dead deer. Because they're gross. And, I swear to God, hide in my closet at night.

One morning, when I wake up next to the bloodied corpse of a deer, I will be the first to say I TOLD YOU SO.

So, anyway, I saw my first hunted deer on my way to work. A guy was unloading it from the back of his pickup truck. And then dragging it across a parking lot. By its legs. Its stomach all gutted and open.


I'm such a pansy.

And the next month will be full of roadkill, blaze orange and corpses rigged to the back of pickup trucks. And they're all looking at me, I swear.

Yes, I realize I'm irrational. I'm over it.